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Sample translations submitted: 1
Portuguese to English: Conto 25 de Abril General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Portuguese Lisboa, 22 de abril de 1974
A data marcada para o processo já foi escolhida, as opções vão ficando cada vez mais limitadas e, por isso, decidi que se alguém deve escrever a minha história, deves ser tu.
Ouvi rumores de uma revolução, mas não posso esperar tanto tempo, não aguento a possibilidade de vir a ser mais um dos muitos presos políticos.
Tentei sempre difundir as minhas ideias através da minha arte; em parte acabou por ser uma forma de relembrar as minhas origens, relembrar-me do Francisco. Foi também a minha queda. Foi ele, sabes? Foi ele que me ensinou tudo o que sei hoje acerca de arte e cultivou em mim o espírito de um intelectual. Infelizmente, muitos de nós fomos limitados a expressar apenas o que nos era deixado e os outros, esses, eram comprados e viviam a fazer propaganda para o governo. Que triste vida que nós os criativos levamos. Artistas dominados pela política e pela violência. Esse é o mundo em que vivemos. O mundo em que trocar ideias entre nós nos pode levar para a cadeia, apenas pela menção da palavra errada. Pobre Francisco, espero que após tudo o que lhe aconteceu esteja melhor agora. O mundo já não lhe pode tocar.
Gostava que ele ainda cá estivesse para ver o fim deste regime. O Francisco teria sido o primeiro a pensar na revolução, ele sempre fora pragmático e as suas ideias sempre demonstraram a sua afeição pela liberdade. Como gostava de ainda o ver.
Como deves ter conhecimento, resta-me apenas escolher entre morrer nas mãos de um regime que repudio ou morrer de uma forma mais digna; infelizmente, nenhuma das duas opções permitirá que veja chegar o dia em que o meu sonho se realiza. Até hoje não entendo como alguém pode apoiar um regime que não demonstra qualquer tipo de apoio ao seu povo, que o reprime com censura, que não o deixa expressar-se. Mas que mais posso eu fazer?
Lembras-te daquele dia? Estávamos todos sentados a discutir as novidades e tu falavas com Pedro sobre Tolstoi e Austen como se o mundo se resumisse a esses dois. Eu ria-me enquanto via a cara de Pedro distorcer-se; ele não sabia de que falavas e nem com todo o esforço que ele fazia conseguia acompanhar-te. O Pedro, sempre amigável, quem diria que seria ele que lançaria a semente da traição no meio de nós?! Ele traiu-nos. Era nada mais do que um dos homens do governo que se fazia passar por um amigo. Vendeu-nos bem a sua mentira. Ele foi o homem responsável pelo meu destino, foi quem me denunciou, que me colocou entre a espada e a parede.
Tu estás a ser julgada já faz bastante tempo, os teus livros foram examinados minuciosamente e mesmo assim não deixaste de possuir a mesma força e vontade de viver que tinhas quando te conheci. Continuas a mesma, Beatriz. Quem me dera não ser o cobarde que escolhe o caminho mais fácil, que desistiu de tudo aquilo que defendia, que te abandona. Que irónico que, após tudo, morrerei pelo que amo.
Assim me despeço de umas das pessoas mais importantes da minha vida. Chegou a minha hora, a hora de eu partir.
Um dia estaremos juntos novamente,
Guilherme
Traída . Era assim que ela se sentia. Traída por todos. Pedro que ela julgava ser de facto um dos seus muitos amigos, havia-a entregado, mas ,pior do que isso, havia denunciado Guilherme. Apenas por uma interpretação de um dos seus muitos quadros, mencionado por alguns como inspiração e, por quase todos os que viam, como a transposição da liberdade individual.
Agora, ela sabia verdadeiramente com o que contava, ao contrário de Pedro que não sabia quando o denunciaram e também não sabia dos acontecimentos atuais. Guilherme, de todos, a sua traição era a que ela menos esperava. Ele abandonara-a, matar-se-á para fugir ao julgamento.
Com os seus pensamentos num turbilhão, ela sai de casa para as ruas. Ruas cheias de gente, civis e militares juntos por uma mesma causa. Que Deus a ajudasse e impedisse Guilherme de cometer o mais grave erro da sua vida. Guilherme tinha mandado a sua carta fazia um par de dias ,mas a revolução já cá estava, talvez ele tivesse esperado, talvez tivesse recuado para assistir ao regresso daquilo que tanto desejou.
Enquanto corria, era inevitável não pensar em tudo o que já poderia ter acontecido. Após correr e desviar-se da multidão, negando as ofertas de muitos cravos por várias pessoas. Finalmente ela chegara e não conseguia acreditar no que via…
Dias antes da sua liberdade, do seu desejo, um dos seus melhores e mais brilhantes amigos havia cometido suicídio, para fugir ao que no passado poderia ter sido uma vida de dor e que agora, no presente, se poderia ter tornado na vida que sempre quis, uma vida a transbordar de liberdade.
Translation - English Lisbon, April 22nd 1974
The date for the process has already been chosen, the options are getting more and more limited and, therefore, I decided that if anyone should write my story, it should be you.
I've heard rumours of a revolution, but I can't wait that long, I can't stand the possibility of becoming one of the many political prisoners.
I always tried to diffuse my ideas through my art; in part it turned out to be a way of remembering my origins, remembering Francisco. However, it was my downfall. He was the one, you know? He was the one that taught me all I know today about art and cultivated in me the spirit of an intellectual. Unfortunately, many of us are now limited to express only what we were allowed an the others, those, were bought by and lived to spread the propaganda of the government. What a sad life we. the creative ones, lead. Artists dominated by politics and violence. This is the world we live in. A world in which the exchange of ideas may land us in prison, solely for mentioning the wrong word. Poor Francisco, I hope that after everything that happened to him he is better now. The world cant touch him now.
I wish he was here still to witness the end of this regime. Francisco would have been the first to think of a revolution, he had always been pragmatic and his ideas had always shown his affection for freedom. How I wish I could still see him.
As you must know, I can only choose between dying at the hands of a regime I repudiate or in a more dignified way; unfortunately, neither of those choices allow me to see the day my dream comes true. To this day I don't understand how anyone can support a regime that does not show any kind of support for its people, that represses them with censorship, that does not allow them to express themselves. But what else can I do?
Do you remember that day? We were all sitting around discussing the news and you were talking to Pedro about Tolstoy and Austen as if the world came down to those two. I laughed as I saw Pedro's face distort; he didn't know what you were talking about and even with all the effort he made he couldn't keep up with you. Pedro, always friendly, who knew it would be he who would sow the seed of betrayal in our midst?! He betrayed us. He was nothing more than one of the Government men posing as a friend. He sold us well his lie. He was the man responsible for my fate, the one who denounced me, who put me between a rock and a hard place.
You've been on trial for a long time, your books have been scrutinized, and yet you still have the same strength and will to live that you had when I first met you. You are still the same, Beatriz. I wish I wasn't a coward that chooses the easy way out, who gives up everything he stood for, who leaves you. How ironic that, after all, I die for what I love.
This is how I say goodbye to one of the most important people in my life. My time has come, the time for me to leave.
One day we'll be together again,
Guilherme
Betrayed. That's how she felt. Betrayed for all. Pedro, whom she thought was one of her many friend, had turned her in, but, worse than that, he had denounced Guilherme. Only because of an interpretation of one of his many paintings, mentioned by some as inspirational and, by almost everyone who saw it, as a transposition of an individuals freedom.
Now, she truly knew what she could count with, unlike Pedro who didn't know when he was denounced and also didn't know about the current events. Guilherme, of all, was the betrayal she least expected. He had left her, killed himself to escape his trial.
With her thoughts in turmoil, she left her house and took the streets. Streets full of people, civilians and military together for one and the same cause. May God help her and stopped Guilherme for making the worst mistake of his live. Guilherme had sent his letter a few day ago, but the revolution was here, maybe he had waited, maybe he had stepped back to watch the return of what he longed for so deeply.
As she ran, it was inevitable not to think in everything that might have already happened. After running and dodging the crowds, denying the offers of many carnations by many. Finally she had arrived and she couldn't believe her eyes…
Days before his freedom, of his wish, one of her best and brightest friends had omitted suicide, to run away from a life that in the past would have been of pain and now, in this present, would have become the life he had always wished for, a life of overflowing with freedom.
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Experience
Years of experience: 1. Registered at ProZ.com: Jul 2024.
MemSource Cloud, Microsoft Word, Personal Translator, ProZ.com Translation Center, Smartcat
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CV available upon request
Professional objectives
Meet new translation company clients
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Bio
I'm a very dedicated and hardworking person. I have decided to pursue translation as a career because i had been tutoring students in English, alongside other subjects, and, in doing so, i realized my passion for language learning. I'm currently looking to expand my portfolio and learning more languages, as well as finishing my degree in translation services. As I'm starting any tips and kind words of knowledge are appreciated.
